Perhaps you recall, I read in my Encarta Encyclopedia that goldfish can live up to 70 years…but Wednesday I read this elsewhere: ‘The oldest known goldfish lived to 41 years of age, and was named Fred.’ Awww, poor Fred. He must have never read the Encarta Encyclopedia.
{What I’d like to know is, how do they know goldfish can live to be 70 years old, if the oldest known goldfish only lived to be 41 years of age??!?}
When Larry got home from work Monday evening, we went off to The House, along with Joseph and Victoria. Larry took apart more wiring and plumbing in the basement, and got things ready to haul away in our trailer in a couple of days.
I wanted the old-fashioned, still-working, black hand-pump beside the back porch, so Larry worked like a trouper getting it out of the ground. He wiggled and tugged at it, tugged at it and wiggled it, jerked and yanked it, yanked and jerked it, wrenched and wrestled with it, wrestled with it and wrenched at it, tugged and pulled at it, and pulled and tugged at it. You get the idea.
And then, with a mighty heave and a tremendous ho, out came hand-pump, cover plate, valve system, and a long, long pipe along with it.
I expected a pipe or something to be left behind in the ground when the pump was removed; but, lo and behold, there was a wide-mouthed open well! We could see water some ways down.
“Yipe!” I said, “Is someone going to drown in it, now?”
“Naaa,” said Larry, who never thinks anything bad is ever about to happen, even if bells and sirens are going off all around him.
He put a large piece of metal over it, and then stood on it to show me it was safe--
--and the metal started bowing in the middle.
I yelped and flung out a hand. Actually, I wasn’t trying to grab him, I was planning to give him a shove, to help boost him off the thing; but Larry laughed at me and informed me that if he really had been going down, down, down, and I really had made a grab for him, he would have pulled me right down with him.
Well, duh, I know that.
He and Joseph carried the thing--long pipe, valve system, cover plate, and all, into a nearby shed.
We finally left The House at about midnight. I drove, as I had on the way there, so Larry could sleep. His days are going to start running into each other, I’m afraid. Running low on gas, I headed for nearby West Point--but no stations were open. So I went on toward Norfolk, wondering if we would be walking soon. Rural Nebraska is really rural--especially after the sun goes down. We were all the way to Wisner before I found a truck stop where I could buy gas. I also got milk and bread for the next day’s lunches.
Tuesday evening, we had pizza for supper. Did you know that, every day, Americans eat an estimated 18 acres of pizza? Good grief. What do those Americans look like, anyway??! Why, I only ate two slices, and felt full as a tick! ;~}
We went back to The House that night, although we hadn’t planned on it till Thursday or Friday, because the mover (who is also now the owner) called Larry to tell him they had already raised it, and were going to fill in the hole Wednesday. So back we went to retrieve the things we wanted.
When we arrived, we discovered that somebody had helped themselves to more of the things we’d been told were ours. The pressure tank for the water well was gone. The portable shower, a nice one that we planned to install possibly permanently into a downstairs bathroom, was flung to the other side of the basement, sitting whoppyjaw amongst cement blocks and big timbers, but it’s fiberglass and will be all right. One of the basement walls had collapsed, and the sink was shattered to bits. But we were glad to find the rest of the reverse osmosis tank that Larry had left to drain the previous night.
The hand-pump was done gone from the shed, vamoosed. Well…if the original owners feel some nostalgia for it, and want to keep it, I can understand that. Anyway, it was outside the house, and our verbal agreement really only included the house and its contents.
Quite a few trees had already been knocked down, and some were burning a little. I wanted to go stand next to the small flames and warm up. It was cold that night.
After traipsing about through ruts big equipment had made, Victoria got rocks and dirt in her shoes. We climbed into the pickup and headed for home.
Then, “There’s something in my shoes!” complained Victoria.
Larry reached out and felt them. “It’s your feet, I think,” he informed her.
Victoria cackled. “Oh, Daddy!”
Again, I drove both going and coming, and I thought something didn’t sound quite right in the engine, a clattering of some sort; but I assumed it was the exhaust system, or just another of the pickup’s quallyfobbles. Larry slept most of the way, so he didn’t notice anything wrong.
Well, it was worse than I thought. I was just nearing the intersection of Routes 91 and 15 north of Schuyler when there was a most dreadful clatter and chatter and vibration, the ENGINE light came on, and the pickup laid the thickest smoke screen you ever did see.
I braked and cried, “Larry! Something’s wrong with the pickup!”
“Switch it to the other fuel tank!” he replied, trying to scramble up from his tight location behind me where he was sleeping, and nearly knocking me out of my seat in the process.
“Fuel tank?” I queried unbelievingly. “What good will that do?” I switched it anyway, then advised, “It didn’t do any good.”
I stopped alongside the road and turned off the clangor.
Larry got out and peered into the dark, murky depths of the motor, started it, and looked in again whilst the ill-starred thing clanked and rattled and clunked. “Sounds like it’s ruined,” he remarked.
“That’s what I thought,” I responded.
He turned it off and checked the oil. It was full and overflowing, and watery, too. Or oily. Something.
“Well,” said Larry, “It’s either the head gasket, or a valve, or a rod, or a piston…”
Whatever it is, it won’t be cheap.
We climbed in, Larry started the poor thing, and then drove just far enough, slooowly, to get to the top of the slight hill between us and an implement dealer at the intersection; then he shut off the pickup, coasted down the hill to the entrance, pulled in, and parked.
“We could drive one of these tractors home,” suggested Larry, gesturing about the lot.
He reached for his cell phone and called Teddy.
Thirty minutes later, Teddy pulled into the lot with his car, we bailed out of our cold, cold pickup, and climbed into his warm car for the drive home. In fact, his car was so warm, the goofy kid hadn’t even worn a jacket.
“So, why didn’t you just drive one of these tractors home?” inquired Teddy, gesturing around.
“Well, I would’ve,” responded Larry, “but Mama wouldn’t let me.”
A couple of fighter jets flew over Wednesday morning about 9:00; Caleb and I watched them circling for a while. Hmmmm…wonder what they were up to? This little town out in the cornstalks doesn’t usually have F14s and Tomcats making circuits about its perimeter.
Teddy arrived to collect the keys for the pickup. A man he works with was going to retrieve it on their boss's rollback truck.
A neighbor of ours who works with Larry has been taking him to work. Thank goodness for kindhearted friends!
That morning, I decided that before I could concentrate on anything else, the fish tank must be cleaned out. Joseph had done it only a week before, but already it was dreadful. Why does it get dirty so quickly?
I put the fish into a big pan while I was cleaning the tank, washing the rocks--and then Socks discovered them. He was indeed interested…so I had to call Victoria to come guard them and keep Socks’ intrigued socks out of that pan. Several of the fish had been acting as if they were about to die, loitering about the bottom and wiggling lethargically; but after being in clean water all day, they seemed a bit better. I wouldn’t have been a bit surprised if I had’ve found a few of them toenails up the next day; but so far they have improved and survived.
Speaking of goldfish, here’s an interesting tidbit: Charlie Chaplin once entered a “Charlie Chaplin Look-alike” contest while visiting Monte Carlo, and did not win--he only placed third.
When the fish were safely back in their Sock-proof Shangri-la, I went back to sewing Aaron's and Caleb’s suits. I finished Caleb’s pants, then Aaron’s pants, and was almost done with Aaron’s vest. But where on earth were Aaron’s collar and back neck facing? I didn’t seem to have a scrap of material left, and I knew I’d never find matching fabric in a million years…so I reckoned Aaron would have to have a corduroy collar on his suit. Lucky thing corduroy collars on linen suits are back in style!
Then I decided Caleb really must see the doctor, as he just wasn’t getting any better. So off to David City we went. The doctor gave us a couple of prescriptions--more Prednisolone again, and an antibiotic, if he still isn’t better when the Prednisolone is gone.
We also got Victoria’s shots--and they gave her two in each leg, poor thing. She didn’t make a peep. When we were leaving, however, she said it really hurt to walk, and it continued to hurt for three days. She was pale as a ghost, with bright red spots high on her cheeks. I gave her some Tylenol when we got home.
There, we discovered that Dorcas had made us some banana applesauce bread. Mmmm…it was really good.
After getting Caleb comfortably ensconced in the recliner once again, I rushed off to Walgreens for his prescriptions. On the way home, I stopped to get a new scavenger fish at Wal-Mart, as the other one had succumbed to gravity. Or ich, short for ichthyophthirius. Or dropsy, also known as pinecone disease, because the fish’s fins stick out and make him look like a pinecone. Those things are supposed to be so hardy, they could survive in a bowl of oatmeal! (Scavengers, that is; not pinecones.)
In truth, one did once survive in a bowl of oatmeal.
Once upon a time, long, long ago when Keith was very young, but old enough to know better (that’s about age three or four), we had a fish tank. And we had guppies. Fancy, fan-tailed guppies. Lots of fancy, fan-tailed guppies. And a scavenger. A big scavenger.
Well, one morning Keith decided to feed the fish. Now, he knew perfectly well that he was not allowed to feed the fish; but, as his mother was busy taking care of the new baby, and not in the near vicinity, Keith decided to feed the fish.
And no small helping did he give them, either. A full-course Thanksgiving dinner, ’twas. The fact is, he gave them the entire contents of a nearly-new container of fish flakes, and I had gotten the large economy size, because it was cheaper that way, in the long run.
Only it wasn’t, not this time, it wasn’t.
When I came walking out into the living room, thinking that perhaps I should feed the fish, imagine my amazement when I discovered I couldn’t even see the poor fish. The pump was barely churning the water, and the bubbles came up slowly, popping with a spluttt, rather on the order of Yellowstone’s mud pots.
I rushed to the tank and clicked on the hood light. In the mucky, cloudy innards of that deplorable little pond, I caught vague glimpses of guppies plowing with difficulty through the thick fodder, looking more like raisins in oatmeal than real, live fish.
“What happened!!!!!!” I howled, whirling around to rush for a big bowl.
As I sprinted past Keith, I noticed that his eyes were quite large, and he had that tell-tale look of guilt on his face.
“I, um…I, er…I, uh…fed them.”
“Aaauuuggghhh, you nearly killed them!” I yowled, making his eyes grow bigger still.
I hastily filled the bowl with water, carried it to the fish tank, grabbed the fish net, and commenced to getting the guppies out of their goopy gumbo. Once in the bowl of fresh water, they perked right up and went to swimming around like troopers. Or like guppies. Fish. Something. Anyway, they swam.
Then, with a gallon pitcher in each hand, I started dipping oatmeal--er, water(?)--out of the tank and pouring it down the drain, keeping an eye out for overlooked fish. When I had emptied the tank enough that I could lift it, I carried it to the sink and poured the remaining water(?) through a big colander. After thoroughly rinsing the rocks and washing out the tank, I started the process all over again, in reverse.
As I trotted back and forth past Keith, who had been standing wide-eyed in the living room the whole time, I kept up a steady tirade about Not Doing Things Your Mother Told You Not To; Being Nice To Fish, meaning Not Overfeeding Them; and Never Pulling Such A Stunt Again. Being in a big hurry, not only to save the fish, but also to get the job done before the baby awoke, which babies are ever wont to do right in the middle of Things That Can’t Be Stopped Right In The Middle Thereof, I left a rather damp trail in my wake as I scurried to and fro. And Keith, being quite close to my route, often got splashed as I dashed by. Ah, well; it was merely the accent to my harangue.
Finally the tank was full again, and I carefully put the fish back into their clean quarters. They swam gleefully about, glad to be guppies again, and not raisins.
And never again did they experience Thanksgiving, carte blanche.
Thursday evening, we had broccoli, cauliflower, and carrots for supper, along with Schwan’s potato croquettes (they’re stuffed with broccoli, onions, and of course potatoes), something the Schwan man swore were scrumptious. Nobody but Larry liked them, however. I thought they tasted like big fat French fries. I hate French fries.
Caleb said, “They don’t have hardly any taste.” He wrinkled his nose and added, “And they’re really, really spicy.”
“Well, that’s certainly consistent,” I remarked.
Larry called his second cousin twice removed (something on that order), Gordon, to ask him about his pickup. Gordon, who works on big diesel trucks, came and looked at it. Larry started it to show him how it sounded; it’s really bad. It could have a bent rod, or something atop a piston. Gordon assured Larry that whatever it is will be expensive, just as Larry had thought. After Gordon left, Larry tried to start the pickup to move it up onto the driveway--but the motor wouldn’t even turn over again. It’s done sunk like a submarine.
That night, I put some flea-remover concoction on the cats, the same stuff I put on them a month ago. It is to be reapplied once a month, at least three times in a row.
Yes, cats have a memory.
They very definitely remember me putting it on them last month, from extra-smart Kitty to quite-smart Socks and right on down to almost-smart-and-getting-smarter little Tabby. Socks and Tabby both tried to flee before I was done. Kitty didn’t like it one particle, either, and it took a while before any of them forgave me for the offense. Tabby invariably goes out and rolls in dirt or oil, and it sticks to the gook on his fur, and then isn’t he a grand mess.
Everyone was still going hale and hearty when I realized Victoria had disappeared, and all of a sudden it occurred to me how long it had been since I’d seen her. I rushed downstairs to see if she was all right. She was sleeping on her bed, and awoke as I came in, probably having heard me coming down the steps every other one.
She was still pale, and all hot and sweaty, but I think that was because she was dressed so warmly. Other than her leg hurting, she insisted she was fine. She came upstairs and watched a video with her siblings about a horse called Gypsy. So I relaxed and went back to sewing. Then I read a book to the children and sent them all to bed.
Friday, we took a Suburban-load of things to the Goodwill, among them, a decrepit set of metal and vinyl chairs. We placed them silently into the enclosure at the back of the store where such things are supposed to be deposited, and then fled for our lives before someone came out the back door and caught us. After all!--there are signs posted all over the place reading, “No Dumping!” And if you would look at those chairs we so generously donated, you would have to wonder whether they belonged at the Goodwill, or the dump.
Larry found an ad in the paper for a pickup someone was selling for $300. They lived in the country near Clarkson, a little town about 30 miles north of Columbus. So off we went to see about it.
What we found was a poor old relic with the body barely hanging together that had to be turned off in order to get it into reverse.
Thank you, no.
By Saturday afternoon, I’d finished Aaron’s vest. I went to my fabric closet to find a piece of corduroy for the suit collar, and something that might match closely enough for a back facing. I looked through one stack…then another…moved to the second shelf --and there was a piece of the very material I was sewing! It was the piece leftover when I cut it out, and there was plenty for collar, facing, and even belt loops for Caleb’s pants. Now Aaron’s suit jacket is almost done. Caleb’s suit still needs the lining put in.
When Larry got home, he called somebody in Lincoln about an Explorer they had advertised in the newspaper for only $900. (That is, they wanted to sell the Explorer for $900; the ad didn’t cost $900.) (One must keep these things straight.)
“Oh, yes, it runs good,” the man assured Larry. “And there is only a little bit of rust on one wheel well.”
So off we went to look at the Explorer.
Yes, well, it ran.
Barely.
Actually, it sounded worse than Larry’s pickup had, shortly before it went to Neptune. Or Pluto. Wherever it went.
On our way back out of Lincoln, we stopped at Star City Motors, where Larry tried out a Land Cruiser. But shifting the thing took an act of Congress and a few ounces of serendipity, besides. Larry blamed his decision not to buy it on me, telling the salesman that I would soon be calling him to come and get the vehicle, and refusing to drive it again. That’s what wives are for--to help husbands say ‘no’ to people without losing face. Except that their wives might then remove their noses, if they don't look out.
When we got home, Larry went out to The Lot to stake it out, measuring from lot lines and driving stakes into the ground here and there to mark corners of The House, location of Future Garage, etc.
Later, after Larry cut boys’ hair while I curled girls’ hair, I towed Larry in his defunct pickup out to a friend’s car lot, where he parked it. Maybe a good Cummins motor will drop into it when we aren’t looking, and it’ll come home again.
We’ve been reading the stories of David, and we have gotten to the part where Saul died in battle and David became king, with the children. Did you ever think how amazing it is that David kept the right attitude toward Saul, calling him ‘the Lord’s anointed’, even though Saul had tried to kill him? He lamented over Saul’s death, and he rewarded the valiant men who had given Saul and his sons a decent burial.
Larry stayed home with Caleb Sunday morning; I stayed home with him tonight. Now I’m afraid the Prednisolone is making him dizzy and sick to his stomach; the doctor who prescribed it has given him a stronger dose than Dr. Luckey gave him last time. On the other hand, several of the rest of us feel the same way, and we aren’t taking Prednisolone. Hmmm…
Speaking of church, did you know that in Omaha it’s illegal to sneeze or burp in church? And in Alabama, a man was once tried and convicted for wearing a false moustache to church. What I failed to find out, however, and what I was most interested in, is: what was his penalty?? And are ladies allowed to wear false moustaches to church? What about real moustaches? And what if you bring your Affenpinscher to church? Is his moustache okay? What if he misbehaves? During the Middle Ages, you could be accused of witchcraft if your pets disobeyed you. Whew! Betcha that cut down on pet ownership.
And now Bobby and Aaron have come visiting, and Aaron is asking to look at the firetruck video. "Hoooooooot!!" Larry is getting out Raspberry Rumble ice cream and Mocha Almond Fudge ice cream, and I’d better go look up some bowls and spoons.
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